


grope blindly towards happiness

by sabinelagrande



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Backstory, Developing Relationship, Implied Female Adaar/Josephine Montilyet, M/M, No WtNV references outside the title, Public Display of Affection, Relationship Negotiation, Sorry guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 00:33:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3670857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/pseuds/sabinelagrande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian's life is full of choices. He might prefer that it not be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	grope blindly towards happiness

In a tavern in northern Nevarra, Dorian realized for the very first time that he could do anything he wanted.

It wasn't something people said in Tevinter. He'd been told that he could accomplish any task he set his mind to, but that wasn't the same. As an Altus, the best he could hope for was to excel at the path that had been laid out for him, to push his family's name on to greater heights, to strive for more power. There was no other choice, barring perhaps giving up hope and lying around drunk all day, and no one made any attempt to hide that fact.

But here he was, not in Tevinter anymore, the life he'd been meant for lying in pieces around his feet, and he could do anything. He could take up farming. He could take up robbery. Unless he was misinterpreting the signals he was getting from the man on the other side of the room, he could probably even take up prostitution.

At the time, he was too hungry to be terrified of the crushing freedom of it, the multitude of choices that had never been there to plague him before, all the forms of responsibility that he'd never realized he didn't have. At the time, it seemed like a relief.

He didn't take up prostitution that night, but he did get dinner and breakfast, which was quite sufficient.

That was many miles and years ago, and it hasn't gotten any easier. It's harder, perhaps; the initial shock of choice was nothing compared to everything that came after, having to live with the fact that his life was now motionless, directionless, free and so far from easy.

He's thinking about it now because the Iron Bull likes to run his mouth.

They've been whatever it is that they are for a while now, long enough that Bull has had plenty of time to make it very clear to everyone what's going on between the two of them. Dorian did not ask for this service, but it's a done thing now. Everyone knows that he belongs to Bull, as much as that classification annoys him- why doesn't anyone think Bull belongs to _him_? Is he really so passive?- and there's no turning back, as far as Dorian can see. That doesn't mean it's any more sensical to Dorian; he has no idea what it means to belong to someone like that, if it means anything at all. But now Adaar has gone and asked him to put a name to it, and Dorian does not know the answer.

In Tevinter, this would all have been settled by now. It would have happened. It would have ended. Between two men, there is no option but dissolution; it was painful and _exhausting_ , but at least it was clear.

But in the south, Dorian is led to believe, there are choices. He and Bull could essentially be whatever they wanted, with no more scandal than any other pair. The problem with that is that Bull won't just come out and say what they _are_ , which is far more important than any possibility. Dorian knows about as much as anybody else does about their relationship, and he's very quickly reaching his wit's end.

The closest Bull has ever gotten to making his intentions known was their fourth night together. Some time before dawn, Dorian made to get up, already peering around the room to locate his clothing, hoping for another graceful exit. He made too much noise, apparently, rocked the bed or something, and Bull roused. Dorian froze, dreading the conversation that would follow, the point where he'd finally have to break it off, but it didn't come. Bull just made a rumbling noise of negation, pulling Dorian back in and holding him there. Dorian couldn't be sure whether it was reflexive or intentional, but it was such a cold night and the bed was so warm, and against his better judgment, Dorian stayed.

Bull didn't say anything about it in the morning, but he did treat Dorian to some very good sex. It made Dorian question, not for the first time, if his better judgment was really all that great.

It rattles around in his head, tumbling over and over- what _are_ he and Bull doing? Is it even fair that he's waiting for Bull to decide? Surely Bull knows what to do better than he does, but maybe that's not it at all. Maybe Dorian is waiting for someone else to decide purely because it means he won't have to. It won't be one more thing he has to go through, one more choice that could ruin everything if he makes the wrong one.

The problem only worsens when he happens upon Adaar and Bull talking one evening. Neither of them have spotted Dorian yet, though they're within earshot; Dorian considers very briefly not eavesdropping, but he catches his name and that idea goes right out the window.

"Dorian's a sweet guy," Bull is saying, and Dorian once again despairs of ever being taken seriously. "He's gentle. And he cares under all that bluster. I'm hoping we're good for each other."

That statement makes Dorian pull up short, because it's so odd. They couldn't possibly be bad for each other. Being good for each other is by no means a given thing, but it's the only possibility; they will be good for each other, or they will not be at all. All of this is too tenuous to bear the strain of fights, of jealousy, of resentment. Dorian feels like this could evaporate at any time, just rise up into the air and be blown away, scattered out like dust. He thought that he liked that, at the beginning; he thought it felt like freedom.

Now he abhors it.

He leaves the tavern before they can see him, and he doesn't appear in Bull's bedroom that night. Bull doesn't say anything about it. Bull never says anything when he _doesn't_ come, as if that part of his privacy is the one that needs protecting. He doesn't go the next night either, too caught up in his own thoughts, too unsure of whether he wants to go back at all.

He does go back the night after that; the thought of how nice it is to curl up against Bull in his big warm bed makes it so hard to resist. He might not know what's going on, but he has no interest in giving it up so easily. The fact that he's started thinking that way troubles him, but not any more than the rest of it. He doesn't _want_ the choice to be yes or no, amorphous confusion or nothing at all, but if it's all he can have, he's not going to pick no.

Dorian suffers through a few more rounds of semi-public humiliation, mostly from Sera, before things finally come to a head. It's making him itch, his annoyance with the situation rising closer and closer to the surface, but that doesn't mean he plans to say anything. Perhaps he's too afraid, or perhaps he's just a masochist; either way, when he steps into the tavern that night, changing things is not his intention.

The Chargers are being rambunctious, as they are prone to do, though by now no one pays them much attention. Their leader isn't, which is interesting; Bull is instead sitting in his accustomed spot by the wall, observing the crowd.

"You seem remarkably sober," Dorian says, by way of greeting.

"I have to be up early," Bull says. "Headed to the Hissing Wastes tomorrow with Adaar."

"Why would that ever be a thing you would willingly do?" Dorian asks, a little disgusted.

Bull grins. "We're hunting wyverns."

"Of course," Dorian says, sighing. "I wouldn't expect anything less."

"You're always welcome to come along," Bull offers.

"Thank you for the offer, but no," Dorian says firmly. "After the Fallow Mire and my father's mother's house, the Hissing Wastes is the last place I want to be."

"I'm surprised," Bull says. "I figured you'd pick somewhere cold."

"I assure you, the atmosphere in my grandmother's house is unbearably chilly," Dorian says; Bull chuckles, but Dorian keeps talking. "At least where it's cold, you can get a foothold. There is a ground. You know exactly where it is. It isn't buried under Maker-knows-how-much sand. When you step, you put your foot on to something. You have a foundation. There may be ice and snow, but even though it's treacherous, snow can be compacted. It can be made steady." Dorian's fists clench. "There is _nothing_ I hate like being in a situation where I can't trust the ground I'm on. I have to know where I stand."

Bull is looking at him silently, and Dorian suddenly realizes that he stopped talking about sand quite a while ago.

"I didn't know you felt like that," Bull says, after a long, pregnant pause, and Dorian doesn't respond. Just because it's true doesn't mean he meant to say it, especially so precipitously- a man should have a chance to sit down before he makes any potentially life-changing statements- and he would very much like this conversation to be over now, please.

Dorian sighs, looking away, and Bull catches him off guard, grabbing Dorian by the waist and pulling him into his lap sideways. Dorian makes to move away, but Bull puts one big forearm across his thighs; even resting lightly, it's more than enough to hold Dorian in place.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" Dorian hisses. "We're in the middle of the tavern."

"If you don't want to be seen with me, I can let you go," Bull says, looking Dorian in the face, and Dorian stops. The significance is impossible to miss, and though his tone is light, Bull's expression says that nothing about this is a joke. 

He wants to scream at Bull for putting him in this position, but he forces himself not to. Dorian has his way of not talking; this is Bull's. It is what Dorian asked for, after all, something concrete. It means something to admit it like this, something that has nothing at all in common with what happens in the dark late at night, what gets said in the heat of the moment. If this is a condition that Bull has, then he has every right and responsibility to name it.

Bull definitely could have done it in a more appropriate fashion; that part Dorian remains displeased with. But when he looks around, he realizes no one is staring. No one is even looking at them- well, no one but Krem, who gives them a slightly suspicious glance, but Krem doesn't really count. There is no mockery to be had, no scorn; he's not even noteworthy, and for once it doesn't feel vaguely insulting. This is not how he wanted this to happen, but he wonders if he ever would have gotten to this point on his own, how many months- how many _years_ it would have taken him to be this open, if he'd ever gotten there at all.

He's been in Bull's lap for over a minute, right here in front of everyone, and somehow, his world hasn't collapsed.

"That would be a bit hasty," Dorian says slowly.

"Glad to hear it," Bull says, holding Dorian tighter, and it doesn't feel as frightening as it really should.

"I've never done anything like this before," Dorian says quietly.

Bull laughs, and Dorian can hear the tension in it, the nervousness that Bull so rarely shows. "Neither have I," he says.

"You haven't?" Dorian asks, frowning.

"Not even close," Bull tells him. "Don't know where to start. It's not something the Qunari do."

Dorian is fairly certain they are completely sunk; Tevinter ostensibly has love relationships, but that veneer is so paper-thin as to be essentially nonexistent. When Dorian was a child, most days went by without Dorian's mother and father even speaking to each other, and Dorian liked that better than when they attempted to be civil. Bull may be better qualified as a guide just by virtue of the fact that he didn't spend so much time amongst such bad role models.

Dorian turns, facing Bull more fully; he might not know what he's doing, but he knows how to be demanding. It certainly seems like the time for demands is now, now that the gates have finally opened.

"You will _not_ clean your weapons on the bedsheets anymore," Dorian says, jabbing Bull in the chest with a finger, though he knows he feels it much more than Bull does. "You will _not_ leave your clothes where I can trip over them in the night. You will _absolutely_ stop giving Varric ideas, because you know as well as I do that he is actually writing a story about us and is actually going to sell it to people, people who probably include Cassandra."

"What are you going to do to me if I don't?" Bull says, looking amused.

Dorian raises an eyebrow. "You should be much more worried about what I _won't_ do."

"Now there's a threat to take seriously," Bull says.

"See that you do," Dorian says, though it's softened by the way he puts his arm around Bull's neck, relaxing in Bull's arms.

"We still have most of the evening left," Bull says, giving him a suggestive look. "I won't be back for a few weeks."

"Then let's not waste another moment," Dorian says. He slides off Bull's lap, standing up; struck by a sudden urge, Dorian kisses him. It's a tiny peck on the cheek, but an accomplishment is an accomplishment. Bull grins, standing up and hurrying him out of the tavern.

And that's that.

\---

The bed is cold when Dorian wakes up; it's far too big when Bull's not in it, all the empty space where he should be feeling like miles. Dorian's hit with a loneliness that's so big that it feels like a physical thing, a thud in his chest. It leaves him so disoriented that he can't even remember where Bull is, why he's left Dorian all alone.

Wyverns. He's been abandoned for wyverns. Of course. Remembering that does ease his mind somewhat, knowing that he hasn't been abandoned for a harsher reason, especially after a night like last night. Still, it's a bit of a ridiculous thing to put up with.

"Why can't I be in love with a normal person?" Dorian says into his pillow.

Before he can consider that statement, the door opens. Dorian tamps down the sudden, instinctive panic at the thought of being caught in Bull's bed; at this point, being found here does not constitute 'caught' so much as 'located', but the panic shows up anyway. It's particularly hard to ignore this time, because no one is supposed to be coming. Who would even show up? Krem, nonchalantly coming to swipe Bull's best liquor? Cullen, who seems physically incapable of knocking? Cole, just because he's Cole?

But instead of anyone on the list, Bull steps inside; he closes and bolts the door behind him, already removing his pauldron before Dorian can even say anything.

"What happened to the wyverns?" Dorian asks, though he really doesn't want to give Bull any reminder of the fact that he could be doing something else right now.

"Adaar had to cancel the trip," Bull says, making quick work of his belt and unceremoniously dropping his pants. "Got caught up in some diplomatic crap with Josephine."

"So, no reason to bring you," Dorian says, lifting up the sheets so that Bull can slip in beside him.

"I can be diplomatic," Bull protests, and it's ridiculous how glad Dorian is that he's back, right here beside him again, after Dorian had planned for a painfully long absence.

"It's not your preference," Dorian says.

"Nope," Bull says shamelessly. "I prefer to be here with you." 

Bull leans in and kisses him, and Dorian doesn't let him get away; he wraps his hand around one of Bull's horns, holding him in place. When Dorian finally lets him go, Bull grins widely at him, and Dorian just has to kiss him one more time for good measure.

"Besides," Bull says, after he's been thoroughly kissed. "I think she actually meant they were gonna go screw, and as much as I wouldn't mind being included-"

"Shut up," Dorian says, punching him lightly in the chest.

"-I still prefer you," Bull finishes, undeterred.

"Well then," Dorian says, putting his arm around Bull's waist and pulling him closer. "Good thing I chose you."


End file.
